


The Cat's Cradle

by GilliganGoodfellow



Series: Children of Dyn Marv [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Child Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Whoreson Junior is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilliganGoodfellow/pseuds/GilliganGoodfellow
Summary: There was a boy once.The monster remembers.In the abandoned lab beneath Temple Isle, the monster remembers when it was not a monster.(Background fic for Trophies on a Wall, but also stands alone)
Relationships: Gaetan & Kiyan
Series: Children of Dyn Marv [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198511
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	The Cat's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> (So it doesn't happen this chapter, but this fic will feature the death of a child in a later chapter. So...yeah, please be forwarned.)
> 
> This is some background for Trophies, because Kiyan...who wasn't even in the original story plan...now insists on being the centre of attention dammit! <3

_ No good.  _

_ No evil.  _

_ Only pain. _

The monster lays on the cold stone. Cold. Always cold. Always pain.

It has to guard.

Guard. 

Silver. Silver blade. Silver hurts monsters. But it can touch the sword on the ground in front of it. 

It does not hurt to touch. But... 

And it remembers when it was not a monster.

* * *

The boy holds the sword out in front of him, sighting down the blade.

“The fighting style I will teach you is called  _ Addan Aenye. _ ” Gezras walks around him. “It is learned from the Ocelots. To be faster than your enemy. So fast that by the time they have readied an attack, they are already dead. 

“Gezras?”

He moves to stand in front of the boy. “Questions?”

“Who are the Ocelots?” 

“Cats, Kiyan.” Gezras says. “Wild cats. Native to Zerrikania.” He smiles. “Observed by the Aen Seidhe swordsman Nissail...” He frowns. “Do you find this amusing, Weddin?”

“He took sword lessons from a cat?” The boy giggles. “Did it have a little hat and boots.”

Gezras rolls his eyes as the child’s laughter grows out of control.

“That is not quite what happened?” He allows Kiyan a minute, then coughs. “Are you done?”

The boy immediately sobers. 

“Now, the first stance. Hold your sword with the hilt past your shoulder, the blade crossing your body. Hold your other arm at an angle, it must be ready to shield, or to cast a sign. Good.”

Kiyan starts to tremble, and Gezras sighs.

“And now get the laughter out before you explode.”

As the child collapses into another fit of hysterics, Gezras looks at the sky.

“I pray to the Gods, Kiyan.” He says to the sky. “I pray that you will live to one day take on an adept of your own. And I pray that that child is even  _ half _ the brat that you are.”

“Here kitty kitty kitty.” Kiyan holds up his sword. “Teach me to fight.”

* * *

Guard. 

“Here kitty kitty kitty.” It whispers to the shadows. To the footsteps. Footsteps?

Silver sword in hand.

_ To be faster than your enemy. So fast that by the time they have readied an attack… _

One man. A second.

A scream. It’s his. His muscles pull with the effort to move. He isn’t thinking. It’s instinct. Memory. And pain. And memory. 

_ Observed by the Aen Seidhe swordsman Nissail… _

A third man dies. A fourth man dies.

The monster is faster than his enemy. 

It’s cold. It’s always so cold. 

A woman screams. Dragonfly?

She scurries backwards, blood splatter on a face that the monster would have called beautiful, when it was not a monster.

She turns, slips, runs again through the entrance. The light. 

_ Don’t look at the sun _ . 

It remembers warmth on its face. A gentle touch. Eyes closed. 

The monster can’t close its eyes. It must stay in the dark. In the cold. It must guard.

It pushes the bodies of the men into the water. Watches the drowners eat. 

It could swim with them. A monster swimming with monsters. 

It remembers swimming. A refreshing lake on a hot summer's day.

It remembers teaching a boy to swim.

Guard. Guard. The mage told it to guard. 

“Here kitty kitty kitty.”

There was a boy once.

No good.

No evil. 

Only pain. 

And cold. 

“A feather in its hat.” It sits by the statue of the cat. “Stop playing with the feather.”

* * *

Orange leaves carpet the floor around Kiyan as he sits guard, his steel sword on his lap, the silver resting against the tree trunk he is sitting on. 

Behind him the camp is quiet, some asleep and others sitting quietly around fires, talking. 

Kiyan briefly looks at the camp over his shoulder, and stands as a witcher approaches. “Lexandre?”

“I’m sitting being bored, might as well be bored  _ and _ productive.” He throws an aggressive hand out to indicate the camp. “Go. I’ll take the rest of your shift.”

“Thank you.” Kiyan picks up his swords, acknowledging the witcher with a nod before heading back to the camp. He stretches his arms as he approaches his caravan. 

“Stop playing with the feather.” He hears Karadin saying. 

“It’s a little big?” Joel says.

“She’ll grow into it.”

“Wouldn’t she be better with a hood?”

“She doesn’t like her periphery vision being obscured.” Karadin smiles at the girl. “Do you Little Cat.” 

He adjusts the hat over her hair some more, and taps the tiny girl’s hand. “ _ Stop _ playing with the feather.”

“What’s this?” Kiyan asks as he climbs into the caravan. 

“Young Schrodinger decided to give Tomy a haircut.” Joel grins.

“And…”

Karadin lifts the hat, and Kiyan sucks the air in through his teeth. 

“Hey.” Joel shrugs. “It’ll grow back.”

Karadin glares at the witcher, and then returns to adjusting his adept’s hair under the hat. 

“There." He sits back. “That will have to do.”

“Very pretty.” Kiyan says.

“I’m not pretty. I’m  _ scary _ .” Tomy bares her teeth at him, growling. 

“Oh.” Joel fakes fear, cowering back with his hands raised. “A scary witcheress with her scary witcheress hat.”

“And scary hair.” Tomy smiles. 

“Yes.” Karadin nods. “Your hair is most  _ definitely _ terrifying at the moment.”

“Jad, can I go play now?”

“Stay in front of the adept’s van, and be in bed before the sun is down.” Karadin ushers her out of the caravan. “Children!”

“You cannot fool us, Jad.” Kiyan smirks. “We have seen you dropping your coins in the orphan relief fund.” 

Joel turns to look out of the tent as a horse comes to a stop on the edge of the camp. “Dragonfly’s back.”

“Good.” Karadin chuckles. “She can discipline her wayward barber of an adept.”

“Oh shit.” Joel says. 

“What?” Karadin comes to stand beside Joel. “Oh shit.”

Kiyan joins them at the entrance, and sees Dragonfly dismounting her horse. 

The horse with the small, blanket wrapped and clearly terrified boy sitting in the saddle. 

“Oh shit.” Kiyan says. 

Joel shakes his head. “Guxart is going to flip.”

The frightened blue eyes look at Kiyan, and...he’s not even six years old. Too young. Far too young to have that much fear of the world. To have streaks from tears cutting through dirt on his cheeks. 

A faded bruise around one of the eyes looking at Kiyan as Kiyan, in turn, looks back. 

* * *

“We won’t hurt you.” The monster whispers. 

* * *

“We agreed, Dragonfly.” Guxart’s voice is stern. “We  _ all _ agreed. We will condemn  _ no one _ else to the shame Treyse has brought us.”

“Orphaned twins.” Dragonfly argues. “The girl’s being sold to the Temple of Melitele. The boy they gave to a  _ witcher _ instead of gold.” Dragonfly spits on the ground, a coughing sound forming in her throat as anger courses through her. “I  _ had _ to take him. If I hadn't who would have? Bandits? A mage needing a  _ test subject _ ?”

Some of the older witchers flinch.

“Or one of the other schools.” Dragonfly’s voice raises as she looks at the other witchers. “They don’t raise their children at Kaer Morhen, they  _ execute  _ them.”

“Dragonfly.” Guxart raises a hand, calming the younger witcher.

Behind them, Karadin carefully lifts the boy down from the horse. And cries out as tiny, sharp teeth latch onto his arm. 

“Bastard.” Karadin just about managed to stop himself from throwing the boy, gritting his teeth against the pain as he pulls his arm away, holding the now struggling child at arms length until Kiyan can get his own arms around his waist, lifting the boy so they are chest to back. 

The boy kicks and punches the air. W himpers.

Karadin holds up the bleeding arm. “Haven’t brought home a cat, Dragon, you’ve brought home a tiger.”

Kiyan tightens his arms around the boy as the struggles slow, the already weak child now exhausted, becoming paralysed by the terrible combination of fear and fatigue.

“We won’t hurt you.” Kiyan whispers.

“Karadin?” Guxart steps towards the bleeding witcher. 

“I have been bitten by bigger creatures.”

The boy stills completely, looking at the ground as he pants and whimpers. 

“I’ll take him to the adept’s van.”

“No, Kiyan.” 

“Guxart?” Dragonfly turns to the older witcher.

Guxart’s expression is stern, but it is a soft gaze that greets the boy’s wide eyes. 

“Take him to Mam-gee.”

* * *

The monster shuffles from wall to wall, sword dragging on the ground at its feet. 

It guards. It doesn’t remember what.

Footsteps. More pain. Blood. Screams. More pain. So many faces. Hands. Swords. A sharp pain on the back of its head. 

Darkness. Hands holding it down. It hurts. It hurts. 

“Well.” The voice scratches at what’s left of the monster’s skin. “You’re an ugly fucker, ain’t yah.”

“Careful.” The monster watches the darkness fade. “His left eye is bruised.”

“What’s he fucking going on about.” The voice cuts through its skin again. 

The monster reaches out, hand trembling and then falling to the cold stone. Always so cold. 

“His left eye is bruised.”

* * *

Mam-gee is sat by the cooking fire, skinning a rabbit. She looks up as Kiyan approaches, head tilting to the side.

“Whose that?”

“It’s me, Mam-gee. And...I have someone with me.”

The elderly elf stands, the rabbit left on the chair behind her as she walks towards Kiyan’s voice, hands feeling the air until they find the boy’s arm and hand.

“Oh so tiny.” Mam-gee coos, not even hesitating to take the boy from Kiyan, holding him against her shoulder like a swaddled newborn as she hushes, rubbing his back and hair. One finger touches the edge of his ear, then returns to the hair. 

“There, little dh'oine wedd.” She turns and walks confidently towards her tent. “Follow.”

Kiyan smiles, following the elderly elf into the tent and finding a seat on the ground by the entrance while Mam-gee sits on her cot, the boy quietly weeping in her lap.

“That’s it, settle there.” Mam-gee hushes, reaching behind her and feeling around for a pillow. “Put your arms around this, dh'oine wedd.” 

The child does so, hugging the pillow tightly to his chest.

“Let Mam-gee look at you.” Her hand slowly rests on his chin, before stroking up his cheek.

“Careful.” Kiyan says. “His left eye is bruised.” 

Mam-gee nods, finger tips caressing the right cheek, eye, and one finger tip down the child’s nose. Then the left cheek, under the eye before gently, feather light, over the bruise. 

“The colour?”

“Yellow.” Kiyan keeps his voice quiet. “He’s had it a few days.”

She strokes his forehead, fingers brushing through curly hair. “What’s your name?”

No answer, except a sniff.

“Oh.” Mam-gee hushes as the head beneath her hand tilts forward, the child now crying into the pillow. “Well you’ll need a name. We can give you one until you have your voice back. Kiyan?”

And the witcher answers without even thinking. 

“Tiger.”

“Tiger.” Mam-gee smiles, and starts to rock the child, Tiger.

“You’re safe now.” Kiyan whispers, his voice heard only by himself. “We’ll keep you safe, Tiger.”

* * *

There was a boy once. 

The monster remembers. 

It remembers when it was not a monster.


End file.
